Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Tales from Steam Chat: Gonzo Edition

We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the ponies began to take hold. I remember saying something like...

"New plan, we play tomorrow because I'm watching a film right now."

Ou812 sighed for ages as the shark swerved back and forth. He was obviously suffering the beginning stages of estrogen overdose. I figured the poor filly-fooler had only hours to live so I didn't bother mentioning the bats to him. He would realize soon enough.

"It's ok, I have some good news! Turns out it's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I figure that since I can't READ the BOOK I might as well watch the movie." I said in some desperate attempt to get him to stop crying. Of course he knew what he did. After all, he stole my book and expected me to play Supreme Commander. As if I owed him.

"I feel a bit lightheaded. Maybe you should drive."

Suddenly, there was a terrible roar all around us, and the sky was full of what looked like Pegasus ponies, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, and a voice was screaming:

"Great Celestia what are these awful animals!?"

"Maybe you should actually buy the book then?" My attorney said, totally oblivious to the demonic equine circling the car and his own estrogen-induced psychosis.

"I can't because a certain Mrs. Man took it!" I screamed as the car swerved off the road and into the desert.

"Now you're making excuses," My attorney said. "Look, I know you don't like to spend money, but seriously just go out and buy it."

At that point I had had enough of his attitude. The Grand Canyon was only 42 miles away from our current position. I would drive us both into that abyss, assuming the beasts circling the car didn't pick our bones clean first. Either way I knew I had to put a stop to him. Ou812 was one of God's own prototypes; to effeminate too let live, too rare to let not-die.

"Be ready for your precious blog post. It's yeast is rising as we speak." I said.

But my attorney was already in the depths of an adrenochrome binge. Foaming at the mouth and turning blue as pure woman-hormones pumped through his rapidly deteriorating veins, he was only able to muster up a bubbling self-reflective burp.

"Gay." He said.

He had already sampled the worst of our collection, pure adrenochrome, harvested from the powdered essence of a baker's dozen of parasprites. He was acting like the village drunkard in some early Irish novel. Of course that wasn't all we had;

We had two bags of Applejacks, seventy-five cupcakes, five sheets of high-powered apple slices, a saltshaker half-full of fluoride, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored Twilight Sparkles, Lunas, Celestias, Pinkie Pies... Also, a quart of Sarsaparilla, a quart of gemstones, a case of carrot juice, a DVD of the first season of My Little Pony, and two dozen cupcakes. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious baked-bads collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can. The only thing that really worried me was the Ponies. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an My Little Pony binge, and I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon.

I knew we wouldn't make it to the grand galloping gala, but if it meant avoiding facing him alone in my ACU with nothing but a couple of hobbled together megaliths to protect myself with then I had no choice but to plunge myself, this car and this collection of dangerous narcotics into the bottom of the Colorado River.